Nolan's mood swings were fleeting, processed and dismissed in microseconds.
The shock of seeing Genestealers fighting Chaos-corrupted rebels, the absurdity of xenos-infected humans battling daemon-touched traitors, the sheer madness of what was unfolding below... all of it registered, was acknowledged, and was set aside.
Tactical assessment took priority over emotional reaction.
He carefully withdrew his observation gaze, pulling back from the cliff edge with measured movements. No sudden motions that might draw attention from below. No silhouettes against the toxic fog that could mark their position.
Nolan drove the Six-Armed Iron Cavalry back to a hidden position where the team waited.
Everyone watched him expectantly, waiting for orders, trusting that their commander would make sense of whatever impossibility lay ahead. The fanatics' eyes burned with their usual fervor. The defense soldiers looked grim but determined. Hassan and Lucy exchanged glances, both clearly uncertain about what came next.
Nolan didn't waste time with explanations.
He ordered the defense forces to set up their heavy weapons along the cliff's edge. The Whirlwind missile launchers were positioned first, crews working quickly to stabilize the launch platforms on uncertain ground. Heavy stubber guns followed, gunners finding firing positions that offered clear lines of sight to the battlefield below.
After everyone in the beheading team learned of the chaos unfolding beneath them, reactions varied.
Some soldiers looked shocked. Others confused. A few seemed to recognize what Genestealers were and recoiled with appropriate horror. But all of them turned to Nolan for guidance, waiting for him to make the impossible decision.
Nolan began issuing combat orders to the team, his tone clinical and precise.
They could allow both sides to continue fighting until one decided the winner. Let Chaos and xenos corruption destroy each other, then clean up whatever remained. It was tempting from a resource perspective, minimizing Imperial casualties while enemy forces ground each other down.
But there was a critical flaw in that plan.
In case the rebels faced defeat, they might decide to die together in a final act of spite. The sacrificial ceremony they'd been conducting could be completed in desperation, triggering whatever Chaos ritual they'd prepared as their last revenge against the hive.
If they successfully sacrificed and opened a Chaos Portal...
Then everyone in the entire hive city would become casualties. The millions of civilians in the middle nest. The billions of workers poisoning themselves in the lower levels. Even the Genestealers currently fighting the rebels would be consumed by daemonic incursion.
Total….. Absolute….. Annihilation.
Therefore, Nolan's tactical priority was clear.
The first task of the decapitation team was to help the Genestealers completely breach the entrance to the rebel camp. Use the xenos-corrupted forces as expendable troops, let them absorb casualties, let them break through defenses.
Then Nolan would lead thirteen fanatics into the rebel camp's interior.
Behead the commanding hierarchy. Kill the leaders coordinating resistance. Interrupt the internal sacrificial ceremony before it could reach completion. Destroy whatever ritual components or corrupted artifacts were fueling the Chaos incursion.
Thus ending the deadly threat of Chaos corruption spreading beyond containment.
The lesser of two evils principle applied here with brutal clarity.
Clean up the rebels corrupted by Chaos first, eliminate the existential threat to the entire hive. Then worry about the proliferation of Genestealers afterward, hunt down the xenos infection before it could establish a proper cult stronghold.
Chaos took priority. Always. Nothing else came close to that level of threat.
Nolan turned to David and issued a quiet order.
The ancient Man of Iron responded immediately, driving his power armor forward. Then David began the process of temporarily opening his armor's protective plating, accessing the storage compartments hidden inside.
The melta bombs emerged one by one.
Each one was compact, easily carried, packed with enough destructive potential to vaporize everything within a ten-meter radius. The kind of weapon you used when complete annihilation was the only acceptable outcome.
David had been carrying them throughout the entire operation, walking explosives waiting for deployment. The risk was enormous, but David's reflexes were fast enough that premature detonation was unlikely.
Then Nolan turned around.
He stared at the fanatic believers in front of him, studying their faces through his eyepiece. They looked tired, exhausted from days of continuous combat. Blood and filth covered their robes. Wounds marked their exposed skin.
But their eyes remained fanatical, burning with religious fire that fatigue couldn't extinguish.
Nolan seemed to hesitate.
His hand paused mid-motion, hovering in the air. These were good soldiers, brave beyond measure, faithful beyond reason. They'd followed him into hell itself without complaint. And now he was about to order them to their deaths.
But he didn't say much about his internal conflict.
He just spoke in a low tone, the words coming out carefully measured.
"At this moment, the Emperor must be watching you! Thousands of people in the hive will also be grateful for your sacrifice. May your souls return to the throne!"
It was benediction and epitaph combined. The kind of speech commanders gave when ordering suicide missions. Acknowledging their courage. Promising their sacrifice meant something. Offering the only comfort available: that death in service would grant salvation.
The words had just fallen when Nolan moved.
He took the melta bombs one after another from David's palm without hesitation, each weapon transferred with ceremonial precision. Then he personally awarded them to the fanatical believers standing before him.
Each zealot received their death with different expressions.
Some smiled, genuinely pleased to be granted this honor. Others nodded solemnly, accepting duty without complaint. A few showed brief flickers of fear quickly suppressed by faith.
But all of them took the melta bombs without hesitation, tucking the weapons into their robes or securing them to belt loops.
Immediately afterward, they bowed slightly to Nolan in unison and offered salute.
"Your Majesty the God Emperor! Being able to fight side by side with Lord Angel is the only honor in our short lives! We will definitely complete your order!"
Their voices overlapped, creating a chorus of absolute conviction. No doubt. No regret. Just acceptance of glorious death in the Emperor's service.
At this moment, something changed.
Nolan saw it clearly through his eyepiece, impossible to dismiss as sensor malfunction or visual artifact.
A fleeting golden light appeared on the calm faces of the fanatics.
It lasted only an instant, there and gone so quickly that unaugmented humans would have missed it entirely. But Nolan saw it clearly: each zealot's face illuminated from within by radiance that had nothing to do with external light sources.
The glow came from inside them, shining through skin and bone, marking them with divine favor.
But Nolan did not sense the existence of any psychic energy fluctuations.
His enhanced perceptions, attuned to Warp activity, detected nothing. No psychic signatures. No disturbances in local reality. Just... light, appearing without source or mechanism.
Therefore, Nolan could only attribute this to visual fatigue caused by long-term battles.
His eyes playing tricks on him. Stress manifesting as hallucinations. The natural result of days fighting without rest, enhanced biology pushed to its limits.
He dismissed the phenomenon and focused on tactical necessities.
A few minutes later, preparations were complete.
Nolan, whose waist was also loaded with melta bombs, led the suicide squad down toward the lower cliff. They moved in careful silence, staying low, using the terrain and toxic fog for concealment.
The defense forces remained above, heavy weapons positioned, waiting for the signal to provide covering fire.
Nolan and the thirteen fanatics crept into assault positions, hidden in shadows at the cliff's base, watching the battle rage before them.
Then Nolan gave the signal.
Whirlwind missiles rose into the sky like battle horns, their launch trails painting brilliant lines through toxic atmosphere. They arced overhead in beautiful trajectories before descending toward the rebel camp.
The bombardment completely sounded the prelude to the human forces' attack!
Explosions rippled across the battlefield. Rebel positions disappeared in fire. The Genestealers, seeing the sudden support, surged forward with renewed fury.
Nolan made his move.
"For the Four-Armed God-Emperor!"
The words emerged from inside his metal helmet, amplified by vox-speakers, carrying across the battlefield with shocking volume.
A deep roar that gradually filled the air above the base nest.
The Genestealers below paused fractionally, confusion rippling through their ranks. The battle cry was theirs, sacred words dedicated to their corrupted faith. Why was it coming from new combatants?
But confusion didn't last long. The enemy of my enemy principle applied even to xenos-corrupted minds.
Nolan drove the Six-Armed Iron Cavalry forward, rushing down the low cliff with thunderous momentum.
He held the Warscythe in his palm, the Blood Scythe blazing with green decomposition energy. The servo mechanical arms activated their own decomposition fields, azure light wreathing the Antarctic vibranium limbs.
Like a completely out-of-control train, Nolan launched an astonishing and terrifying charge toward the rebel camp.
The assault was aimed directly at positions being constantly covered and bombed by Whirlwind missiles, targeting the weakest points in rebel defenses, exploiting gaps created by Imperial artillery.
And it seemed that Nolan's shouted battle cry worked.
Or maybe the Genestealers simply hated the forces of Chaos far more than they hated ordinary humans. Chaos was anathema to all life, even corrupted xenos life. It consumed everything equally.
In short, the sudden appearance of the Six-Armed Iron Cavalry did not provoke attacks from the Genestealers.
They recognized the green armor wasn't targeting them. Saw the massive warrior charging toward their enemies. Made the tactical calculation that this force was, temporarily, allied with their assault.
Conversely, the Genestealer command hierarchy seized the opportunity.
They took advantage of the repeated bombardment disrupting the rebel garrison, recognized the chaos spreading through enemy lines. Orders flowed through psychic channels.
A large number of Genestealers were commanded to launch continuous violent attacks on the entrance of the rebel camp!
The coordinated assault hit with overwhelming force. Aberrations charged with their crude hammers swinging. Acolytes fired salvaged weapons in sustained bursts. The Genestealer tide crashed against rebel positions like a breaking wave.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
Explosive flames continued to rise inside the rebel garrison.
Buildings collapsed under bombardment. Barricades shattered. The carefully prepared defenses that had held against the Genestealer assault suddenly couldn't withstand the combined pressure of artillery and renewed infantry attack.
The heavily armored Goliath truck completely smashed through the crude defense of the rebel garrison.
Its reinforced prow acted like a battering ram, crushing barriers, scattering defenders. The vehicle's momentum was unstoppable, enhanced by the chaos of simultaneous artillery strikes.
Then it began coordinating with the Leman Russ tanks.
The salvaged vehicles, missing parts but still functional, brutally crushed and shot the rebels inside the breached perimeter. Treads ground over bodies. Cannons fired at point-blank range. The Genestealers had brought proper armored support.
At this moment, thirteen fanatic believers carrying melta bombs took advantage of the brief chaos.
They crossed the battlefield in scattered formation, each one moving independently, following different routes. They lurked on the outskirts of the rebel camp, finding hiding positions, waiting for optimal detonation opportunities.
Suicide bombers in the Emperor's service, ready to die gloriously.
DONG DONG DONG.
At the same time, Nolan rampaged through the combat zone like a mad bull.
He used his thick shoulder armor to knock away a tall aberration that had been blocking his charge route. The mutant went flying, tumbling across the ground, alive but dazed. Nolan didn't spare it another thought, just kept moving.
He broke into the rebel camp proper, smashing through what remained of the perimeter defenses.
His magnetic boots stamped hard on the ground, arresting his momentum. Blood and dust stained the ceramite, turning the green armor brown and red. He skidded to a stop in the center of the camp.
One of Nolan's palms pulled a melta bomb from his waist.
His thumb found the activation stud. The weapon armed with a soft beep, timer counting down. Then he threw it hard toward a building inside the rebel camp that looked important.
The structure might have been a command post. Maybe an armory. Possibly just a random target. It didn't matter. What mattered was spreading chaos, disrupting organization, preventing coordinated response.
The melta bomb detonated with a roar that shook the ground.
The building collapsed, superheated vapor consuming everything within the blast radius. Stone ran like water. Metal vaporized. Anyone inside simply ceased to exist.
Loud roars echoed as more buildings continued to collapse around the camp.
The invisible force field of Nolan's refractor field suddenly made a dull sound.
Multiple weapons had targeted him simultaneously. Scorching lasers converged on his position from different angles. Physical bullets hammered his armor from rebel positions that still had functioning heavy weapons.
The refractor field caught and redirected the incoming fire, creating a sphere of deadly ricochets around Nolan's position. But the bombardment was intense, pushing the field toward its limits.
In order to avoid becoming the target of concentrated fire, Nolan started running again.
He couldn't stand still. Couldn't let them establish proper firing solutions. Had to keep moving, stay unpredictable, maintain momentum.
He swung the Warscythe in his palm with all his enhanced strength.
The Blood Scythe carved through everything in its path. Dozens of Genestealers and corrupt rebels who were charging toward him simply ceased to exist, bodies falling in pieces as the decomposition field unmade flesh and bone.
Nolan didn't discriminate.
Anyone in his path died. Chaos-corrupted rebels. Xenos-infected cultists. He was a force of nature, destroying everything equally, carving a path of devastation through the melee.
Then Nolan quickly turned his eyepiece.
The lenses were covered in thick blood, reducing visibility. He blinked commands to activate cleaning protocols, wipers clearing the organic matter.
He scanned the rebel camp's interior, analyzing structures, tracking movements, identifying likely locations for command elements.
He deliberately chose a direction where the rebels had the largest concentration.
Where the fighting was thickest. Where structures looked most intact. Where he might find leadership coordinating the defense and, more importantly, where they might be conducting their sacrificial ceremony.
Nolan launched another charge in that direction.
The Six-Armed Iron Cavalry accelerated to ramming speed, magnetic boots pounding ferrocrete, servo motors screaming. Anyone who blocked his path died. Anything in his way was destroyed.
Whether it was rebels fighting back desperately or Genestealers fighting bravely, the outcome was the same.
As long as they dared to block Nolan's charge route, he would send them to death without discrimination.
The Blood Scythe didn't care about allegiances. The decomposition field made no moral judgments. Death was distributed with mechanical efficiency.
As time slowly passed, the battlefield's situation changed visibly.
Compared with the seemingly endless number of Genestealers pouring from the base nest's depths, the Nurgle zombies the rebels had temporarily created weren't sufficient.
The corpse tide that had seemed overwhelming in earlier battles was being ground down. For every zombie destroyed, the Genestealers could field two more acolytes. The numbers game favored the xenos infection.
Even if the rebels could rely on well-trained combat doctrine and advantages in weapons and equipment to barely compensate for some disadvantages...
They were still losing.
And Nolan, who was rampaging across the entire battlefield, interrupting sacrifice ceremonies whenever he detected psychic activity, also became the behind-the-scenes promoter of the rebels' demise!
Every time he detected Warp energy concentrating, he charged that position. Killed whoever was conducting the ritual. Destroyed the components. Scattered the participants. The rebels couldn't complete their desperate gambit with a three-meter Terminator systematically hunting their efforts.
Soon after, a deafening explosion shook the entire camp.
The last scarred fanatic, bleeding from multiple wounds, had dragged himself to the rebel arsenal. He'd armed his melta bomb, held it tight against his chest, and triggered detonation.
The terrifying power of the weapon consumed him instantly, vaporized his body before pain could register. But it also ignited the ammunition stores.
Secondary explosions rippled outward in cascading fury. Shells detonated. Power packs exploded. Fuel reserves went up in fireballs. The arsenal became a miniature sun, consuming everything nearby.
The blast accidentally reached the rebels' headquarters.
The structure that had coordinated defense, that had housed command staff, that had probably contained the senior leadership of the Mobian Sixth Regiment, simply disappeared. Vaporized. The headquarters was blasted directly into the sky in fragments too small to identify.
The command brain and source of corruption of the Mobian Sixth Regiment were eliminated in one strike.
This rebel force that had suffered great injustice, that had turned to Chaos seeking power or revenge, that had condemned their own world through that choice...
They were only one step away from final demise!
Leaderless. Disorganized. Scattered. The remaining rebels fought as individuals rather than units, survival instinct overriding military discipline.
However, for Nolan and the decapitation team that followed him, this wasn't the end.
It was just the beginning of another fierce battle, not the conclusion of the whole operation.
At this moment, Nolan drove the Six-Armed Iron Cavalry at full speed toward a new target.
He controlled the gauss blaster mounted on his power backpack, targeting systems painting the Goliath truck that had been crucial to breaking the rebel perimeter.
He kept bombarding the vehicle's cab with sustained fire.
A series of terrifying green beams struck the armored compartment repeatedly. The first shots burned through the reinforced plating. Subsequent shots reached the interior. The Genestealer driver inside was annihilated into green atoms that kept escaping, body reduced to disassociated particles in the blink of an eye.
The Goliath truck ground to a halt, driverless, engine still running.
Then Nolan pulled two melta bombs from his waist.
He armed them both simultaneously, timers synchronizing. Without hesitation, he charged toward the two Leman Russ tanks.
The salvaged vehicles only had engine power remaining. Their main guns had been damaged or depleted, unable to carry out fire bombardment. But they were still dangerous, still capable of crushing infantry, still symbols of Genestealer military capability.
Nolan's intention was clear.
"The chaos crisis has been resolved, and the casualties of the rebels have been eliminated..."
His voice emerged from his vox-speakers, calm and certain, announcing tactical reality.
"It's time for you 'loyal' thieves!"
The sarcasm in calling the xenos-corrupted cultists "loyal" was deliberate and cutting.
Then Nolan raised his voice to a battle cry that echoed across the shocked battlefield.
"For the Emperor!"
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